


On Waterloo Bridge

by Superberrydeluxe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superberrydeluxe/pseuds/Superberrydeluxe
Summary: Aziraphale realizes he's in love with Crowley, after reading a poem on the underground. Now he just has to work up the nerve to tell him…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fan fiction - please be gentle! I love this fandom and since it's starting to feel like the real apocalypse right now, I thought we could all do with some tooth melting fluff. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

After the Notapocalypse, after the switch and after several dinners at the Ritz, an angel and a demon were stood by an immaculate vintage Bentley on a golden autumn afternoon. The demon with his foot in the door, ready to swing inside.

"Lift home?" Crowley's eyes were hidden behind his glasses, but the angel could picture them anyway.

"No, thank you… I don't think I'm ready to go home yet," Aziraphale waved his hand at the city around them. "I think I'll wander for a bit." 

Even though the days leading up to today had been long, he wasn't tired. He wanted to go and see what they have saved, see it all anew. And there was something delightful in delayed gratification, and he felt no need to rush home.

"Would you like to join me?"

"Not today angel - think I am going to go home and take a nap." Crowley had sobered up to drive, but Aziraphale hadn't and his wave was tipsy as he headed off into the city with a cheery "I'll speak to you soon my dear." 

….

He wandered down from the Ritz, looking at the white buildings and the black wrought iron fencing. The sun was shining and the park was full of people enjoying the first days of autumn - some with ice creams, some with winter coats. 

The edge of the park intersected Birdcage Road and Aziraphale crossed it almost without thinking, hands behind his back as he strode happily along the river until he reached Waterloo bridge. A breeze blew off the Thames and he felt a familiar fizz of pleasure that had bubbled up regularly over the last few weeks. It was wonderful. 

Students needing to start their university reading found the Southbank sheltered and the grass blessedly dry yet soft as they stretched out.

All of the servers and baristas in every bar and coffee shop around the West End found their feet didn't hurt as much as they normally did at the end of a shift, and that their customers had tipped a lot more generously. 

A couple on holiday, short-tempered and tired of lugging backpacks, found themselves having lunch at a lovely little hole in the wall chatting away with the owner for hours, the place recommended by Tripadvisor quite forgotten.

Visitors to the Globe found the clouds would break in just such a way that they didn't have to squint against the sun to see the stage, by stayed warm and comfy for the entire 3-hour performance of twelfth night. 

...

It was starting to get a bit nippy, so Aziraphale wiggled his hands into his gloves and made his way to the underground.

He'd ride the tube for a bit, then walk the short way home. Aziraphale was not normally one for the underground, but he felt quite up to it today. And it was terribly clever what these humans had managed to do. 

As he stepped on off the escalator, a busker who'd been struggling to keep her guitar in tune suddenly found it hitting all of the right notes, almost regardless of how she had played it. Aziraphale checked the line (South) and made his way straight onto the carriage.

On more than one occasion Crowley had taken credit for the state of advertising on the London underground. Waiting until people were on their way home to remind them that they needed to go to the gym, go back to university or take multivitamins if they were ever going make something of themselves when they were too exhausted or fed up to do anything about it. 

What Crowley didn't know was that the poetry on the underground was down to Aziraphale. The idea being that he could surprise people with a little moment of joy or a moment comfort when they needed it most was delightful. If he was being honest, even the angel had been surprised by how well it had taken. When he saw the little white rectangles across from where he was sat neatly on the tube, he felt a little frisson of pride in an angelic job well done. Hands clasped neatly in his lap, Aziraphale settled to read. 

When he got to the end, his stomach dropped and he read the poem again, trying to fight his rising panic.

_On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,  
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.  
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove  
And try not to notice I've fallen in love_

Well, that was silly. They had said goodbye at the Ritz, where weather had been quite nice. And his gloves were cream cashmere, thank you very much, not black wool.

_On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:  
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.  
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song  
That says something different. And when was it wrong?_

The champagne had been delicious. And it probably was nothing. Crowley had not been any more charming than he had been at the dinners or lunches or general time together since the end of the world. Aziraphale was made to love everything. And anyway, there was nothing wrong with loving your best friend. That's what friendship was all about.

_On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair  
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.  
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-  
I admit it before I am halfway across_

The weight in his chest sank further. That was the worst of it, wasn't it? His heart did always know what was right - even when his brain and his stomach and all the rules of heaven were telling him something different. 

Oh, bugger.


	2. Chapter 2

When he got back to the bookshop, Aziraphale dithered. A lot. At first, he pretended to be checking inventory. Then he made a cup of tea and settled down with a novel. Some substantial reading to keep his mind occupied. 

Half an hour later the Dickens landed with a thump. It was all to no avail. 

"Trying not to notice he'd fallen in love." Wasn't that what he was doing all along? Telling Crowley he didn't even like him. Chalking his feelings up to his general love of all things, rather than his specific love for one person, one demon in particular.

But he was in love - and it was delightful. And horrible. What now? Admit it to Crowley? 

He knew that Crowley liked him, cared about him even - you don't offer to run away to Alpha Centauri with someone if you don't care about them. You don't lean in when they are talking, bring them wine, tease them incessantly but not unkindly. 

But love - the feeling fizzing about under his skin - was different. Even if he admitted that he loved Crowley, how likely was it that Crowley could love him back? Crowley was charming. Sarcastic. Clever. Handsome.

Aziraphale was...none of those things. Not really. So if he told Crowley, the demon, being rather kind underneath it all, would let him down gently. Pretend he didn't understand. Give Aziraphale a way out ("Of course you do. You're a being of love. You love everyone."), which Aziraphale would take. And that would be that. 

The cramped and crowded space of the bookshop did not lend itself to pacing, but Aziraphale found a small track in front of the counter and to stride back and forth on, hands folded in front of his stomach until the sunset and the streetlamps blinked on. 

What he really needed was a sign. A follow up a sign, really, because the poem could have just been a coincidence. That it was stuck in his head was just a sign of a good poem. Not a sign of anything else. He needed something irrefut-

"Hello, angel" Crowley looked cheerful, standing in the doorway, which always opened for him, with a bottle of Malbec tucked under his arm.

Oh hell. 

"Came to see if you fancied a drink." 

"I'm surprised you're awake."

"Couldn't sleep - all the excitement." Crowley squinted at him. "You alright angel? You look a bit... twitchy."

"What? Oh yes. I'm fine. Absolutely splendid." He gestured to the kitchen. "I'll er… I'll just go get us some glasses."

The staccato rhythm of the poem beat louder in Aziraphale's ear as he went to fetch the glassware. Admit it. Admit it. Admit it. On the chair at the back, where Crowley was stretching out, taking off his jacket and settling in. 

He was in mid-flow about something.

"But people don't see it like that, do they? They think they know them with their cute faces and their big eyes, but it's all fluff - shave an owl and you'd get something far more demonic-looking than half the things in hell I can tell you. Oh, cheers."

He took the full glass of red from Aziraphale and knocked half of it back, tipping his head with a loud "ahhhhh". Anyone who didn't know better would say Crowley had been hard at it all day, not that he'd had a long lunch and short nap. 

"I mean if I had a choice between a snake and a shaved owl coming to torment--" 

"I love you."

It was not, as far as heartfelt confessions go, one for the history books. He felt slightly sick. Crowley took another swig of the red and held it in his mouth. Ostensibly savouring the flavour, but clearly playing for time, his face blank.

Eventually, he took a gulp, and his mask slipped back into place. 

"Of course you do. You're a being of love. Made of love. You love everything."

That was sometimes the problem with admitting things. You had to keep on admitting them, even when it would be easier to backtrack, laugh it off and move on. 

"Nooooo - well, yes - but that's not what I meant Crowley. I meant…" In for a penny. "I love you. I'm in love with you. You specifically. Have been for a while, I think." 

Crowley was still staring at him, but he wasn't drinking anymore. The blank expression was slowly being replaced by a brightening and tightening around his eyes. 

"Have you? Since when? Since last Tuesday? Since the garden?"

"Well, probably not since the garden. I mean maybe I liked you. A bit." 

Crowley was smiling at him openly now, letting him waffle on

"Look what does it matter? I've told you now. There's no need to make fun."

"I wouldn't dream of making fun of you angel."

Crowley drank the last of his wine and put his glass down. Breaking out of his slouch he leaned over closer to Aziraphale, to gently rest his hand on the angel's leg, his thumb rubbing small circles on the inside of his knee. 

"See…" Demon's voice had gotten softer. "I've been in love with you since the garden. Ever since you gave your stupid sword away." Crowley was smiling, but it was gentle. It was loving. Crowley loved him too. 

Aziraphale wiped his eyes - when did he start crying? 

"Since then?"

"Since then."

"Why didn't you say anything?!" Aziraphale had only been keeping it in for an afternoon and it had nearly killed him.

"Didn't want to go too fast for you, did I?"   
Aziraphale, who thought briefly that he'd gotten his emotions under control, started sobbing in earnest. 

"Hey now, none of that." Crowley's hands were on the side of his face, brushing his tears away. "It's not the end of the world. We're here now."

Aziraphale sniffled and nodded. Crowley smiled at him again and then very gently, very slowly brought their lips together. 

It was, as far as first kisses went, one for the history books.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Aziraphale reads is "After the lunch" by Wendy Cope, a national treasure.


End file.
